


all ripe together in summer weather

by orphan_account



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, too many food based metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 00:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She can feel it, physically, the very second Zelda lifts her eyes from her second newspaper of the day and fixes them onto the back of Hilda’s head. It wouldn’t be truthful to say it’s an entirely pleasant feeling. After two-and-a-half decades, Hilda knows that it simply isn’t sensible to go hot all over whenever she’s the target of her sister’s narrowed gaze but her body doesn’t seem to agree.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. If anyone is surprised that my multi-shipping ass eventually got around to writing this (the best) CAOS pairing, you shouldn't be.  
> 2\. I tried so, so hard to not give this a title from Goblin Market. I failed.

Hilda has always prided herself on having good instincts. It takes her the length of a heartbeat to sense and divert one of Ambrose’s claustrophobic funks, she can easily distinguish the difference between the front door’s ‘sulky teenager’ slam and its ‘mortal peril’ crash and, if she says so herself, she’s gotten fairly good at dodging potentially fatal blows from toasting forks. So she can feel it, physically, the very second Zelda lifts her eyes from her second newspaper of the day and fixes them onto the back of Hilda’s head. It wouldn’t be truthful to say it’s an entirely pleasant feeling. After two-and-a-half decades, Hilda knows that it simply isn’t sensible to go hot all over whenever she’s the target of her sister’s narrowed gaze but her body doesn’t seem to agree. This alone wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the accompanying sense of dread that is Hilda’s Pavlovian response to Zelda’s undivided attention, especially considering the foul mood her elder sister has been in for an uninterrupted fortnight. It doesn’t result in a trip to the dark, damp earth outside every time, far from it, but it’s often enough for Hilda to know that letting her guard down at the present moment would be very, very foolish. And despite what she sometimes allows people to believe, Hilda has never been foolish.

  
Well, almost never. Where her older sister is concerned, Hilda can’t deny that she has a slight tendency towards stupidity. Zelda has always been as capricious and temperamental as a spoiled child and instead of doing the sensible thing and refusing to indulge her, Hilda has more often than not found herself catering to her sister’s whims. She’d need more hands than all her familiars put together to count the number of times that she’s slaved over the stove or sewing machine, only for her efforts to be met with the wave of a dismissive hand and the assertion that Zelda had never liked loganberries or blue velvet, that Hilda is the one in the wrong. Just last week, in a doomed attempt to lift Zelda out of her mysterious bad mood, she’d bought them both tickets to a Bette Davis retrospective at the movie theatre the next town over. It hadn’t gone down well; when she’d presented the idea to her sister, Zelda had given her a look like she was mud on the Axminster carpet. Instead of any kind of gratitude, Hilda had received a twenty-minute lecture on the slippery slope of succumbing to mortal frivolity and watched as perfectly-manicured hands flung two pretty paper tickets into the fireplace, Margo Channing's stern face gazing up at them as it burned.

  
On an intellectual level, Hilda knows she should stop trying. She’ll never understand why Zelda will deny herself things that she genuinely enjoys just to spite her little sister but at this point, it’s ridiculous to expect otherwise. And yet, Hilda keeps going. Because occasionally, just occasionally, when Hilda makes one of her special efforts, she’ll be met with an expression of pleasure that makes her heart thump so hard in her chest that she worries it might break through the skin. Sometimes when Hilda has trouble falling asleep, she’ll remember Zelda’s conspiratorial smile as their forks clinked together over a midnight chocolate cake at the kitchen table, hushing their laughter so Sabrina and Ambrose didn’t come traipsing down the stairs demanding to share. Or Zelda twirling in front of the mirror, delighting in the way the purple taffeta of her skirt spun out when she moved and making the tiny needle pricks on the pads of Hilda’s fingers worth it a thousand times over. She’s looked desperately for a give-away, a warning sign, anything to tell her whether Zelda is going to respond to her overtures with warm pleasure, sneering disdain or a harsh blow to the head but if there is a tell, Hilda hasn’t been able to spot it. If they end up bankrupt, she's pretty sure her sister could make a fortune in the casinos.

  
That’s why she can’t stop the prickling twin sensations of sickening dread and delicious anticipation creeping over her body now she’s felt Zelda’s gaze attach itself to her. She doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t turn around but keeps moving through her busy routine, although she does scrub at the mixing bowl in the sink slightly harder than is strictly necessary. It isn’t until the little plastic alarm clock that Zelda hates with a passion starts chirping that Hilda is forced to turn around to rescue a pie from the oven and meets her sister’s eyes. Zelda’s expression isn’t too far removed from the irritated frown it’s been set in for the last two weeks but it isn’t quite identical either. It’s lazier, somehow, less intense; she doesn’t look happy, per se, but there’s something lackadaisical in her eyes as she watches Hilda bend down to the oven and straighten back up again with a steaming hot cherry pie in her hands. It’s their niece’s favourite and when Zelda doesn’t say anything or acknowledge Hilda in any way, the younger witch’s mind slips for a minute into excitement at the prospect of Sabrina spending the weekend at home.   
Predictably, it’s then that Zelda decides to stop watching and start playing. Hilda hears the creak of the wooden chair being pushed back from the table and is struck with the horrifying certainty that Zelda is about to find herself some catharsis and use the stopping of Hilda’s heart to restore her good humour. It briefly occurs to her how undignified it is to die while wearing a dirty apron and oven gloves. The inevitable blow, however, doesn’t come. She doesn’t feel sharp, cold metal sinking into her skin, or hear the dull sickening thud of wood against her skull before she loses consciousness. Zelda gets closer, she can sense that, but Hilda’s heart is still beating and she dares to risk a glance at her sister.

  
Without warning, Zelda plunges her index finger right into the middle of the pie, which is surely still far too hot to the touch, destroying the picture-perfect lattice completely, and brings it out again sticky and crimson and dripping. Hilda had, as any good cook does, tasted the filling umpteen times before deciding it was perfect so when her sister brings the cherry-stained digit to her mouth, Hilda can imagine exactly what she’s tasting, how the sharp sweetness must be dancing across Zelda’s tongue. It makes her so lightheaded that it takes a good few moments for her to remember to be angry.

  
‘Zelda!’ is all the scolding she can manage before those frankly dangerously hypnotic eyes are on her again, rooting her to the spot.

  
‘It was made to be eaten, was it not, sister?’ In a practiced movement, Zelda’s hand comes up to Hilda’s face but instead of a rolling pin caving in the side of her head, a still-sticky finger is slipped in between her parted lips. Ah. So. Zelda is in search of the other kind of catharsis.

  
Of her sister’s two preferred methods of relieving tension, it seems unnecessary to say that this is the one Hilda favours. She might think about laughing and sharing secrets with her sister when she can’t sleep but when she doesn’t want to sleep, when she lies in bed restless and frustrated, she thinks about this. Truthfully, she thinks about it incessantly but is always too scared to instigate. She’d tried only once, too many years ago to count; she’d been about twenty-one, Zelda a few years older and home in Greendale taking a brief rest from dancing and drinking her way around Europe. The week before passed in a state of joyous anticipation and when Zelda finally appeared, Hilda was too excited to remember exactly who she was dealing with. When they were dressing for dinner, Hilda had stretched up uninvited to meet her sister’s lips with her own. For a brief, blissful moment, Zelda’s mouth had remained soft and pliant beneath her own, until it twisted into an ugly sneer which was quickly followed by the brass fire-poker colliding with the back of Hilda’s neck. The following night, Zelda had crawled into Hilda’s bed, kissed her skin as she whispered the apologies that she only ever offered after dark, but Hilda had never tried again. Instead, she waits for something like this, for the occasions when Zelda has decided that murder just isn’t going to cut it.

  
‘I must say, Hilda, I thought it was really quite delicious. But perhaps you’ve developed a taste for something different’ Zelda drawls, and her eyebrows rise in time with Hilda’s quickly elevating heartrate as the finger slowly and obscenely withdraws. She stares up at her sister, aroused and uncomprehending, until something clicks. It hadn’t even occurred to her to connect the two until now but the start of Zelda’s current fit of pique coincided quite closely with Hilda’s rather woeful date with Dr Cee. She’d been home before the witching hour and although she’d been slightly surprised at being met with stone cold silence rather than biting sarcasm casting aspersions on her feminine charms, at the time she’d considered it nothing more than a small mercy. Now, however, it crosses her mind for the first time that it might have been something rather more interesting.

  
‘No’ she says slowly, tongue darting out to clean off the corner of her mouth and stomach flipping when Zelda’s eyes widen just a little. ‘You know me, stuck in my ways. I’ve always preferred the old favourites.’

  
Once, a long time ago, she'd ended up at the same party as Tallulah Bankhead and found herself completely unable to stop staring. Everyone else was too, of course, but it wasn't so much the actress's good looks that had caught Hilda's attention. It was more that every time Hilda looked at her, it felt like she was seeing a poor man’s version of Zelda. The aura was the same, somehow, the same air of effortless elegance that was completely drowned out by something far more heady and intoxicating whenever her mouth stretched into a smile or opened to let a swallow of whiskey between her lips. The actress had that quality of Zelda’s that always made Hilda’s heart hammer; the indescribable deliciousness that somehow reminded her simultaneously of the John Singer Sargent portraits lining the walls in high society and the grainy footage of seedy black-and-white movies that Edward had tried to shock her with back home. She feels overcome with the same intoxication now, only where gazing from afar at Miss Bankhead had been like drinking a bottle of red wine, when Hilda locks eyes with Zelda she feels as though she’s spent the last twenty-four hours languishing in an opium den. It isn’t new for her to feel drunk on Zelda, not even nearly, but the added knowledge that her sister has spent the last fortnight in a rage of jealousy that she, Hilda, has provoked is enough to have her swaying slightly where she stands. Zelda on the other hand is still, taut and tense, reminding Hilda far too much of Salem readying himself to sinks his claws into a poor, unsuspecting mouse. There’s no doubt that Zelda is an expert predator but, just for once, Hilda doesn’t fancy being her prey.

  
Instead of waiting tentatively as she usually does for painted lips to swoop down and cover hers, she reaches up as quick as a flash to pull at Zelda's graceful neck until she can kiss her for the first time in what feels like years. It is, as they say, like riding a bike. When Zelda nips hungrily at her lip, not sparing any time to be soft and sweet as her hands surge over Hilda's hips, it suddenly feels like no time has passed at all.

  
‘Satan, Hilda, your mouth...’ Zelda breaks off with a moan that Hilda will be replaying in her head on a loop for the entirety of the foreseeable future. Her sister's willingness to be complimentary when she's aroused never fails to amuse Hilda. She always knows, deep down, that Zelda needs her but this is the only time that she doesn't even try to hide her dependence and it sends a lightning bolt to Hilda's heart as much as it makes her ache between the thighs. Reaching for Zelda's hand, she fully intends to do something about at least one of those torturous aches but her sister stops her, shakes her head and sends Hilda's heart careening to the bottom of her stomach.

 

 


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘So impatient, sister’ well really, what does Hilda expect? She'd literally and figuratively taken Zelda's breath away by grabbing her and planting a kiss on her that would certainly never have got past the Hays Code, and now she sounds surprised that Zelda is having to put quite a lot of effort into stopping herself grinding into her sister like an adolescent at a discotheque.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A switch to Zelda's POV at least partially because I just wanted to write a love letter to Hilda Spellman.  
> 2\. Thank you all for your lovely comments on the first part! I hope you enjoy this too.

She shouldn’t be doing this but as Zelda resists the tug of her sister’s hand, it isn’t because she has any intention of stopping. When Hilda's face falls, Zelda feels a fond fluttering in her chest that she's tried a thousand times to squash. Every single attempt has been a failure and this is no exception. Unable to stop herself, she lifts her hand from its restraining position on her little sister's arm to wind around her waist instead, tugging Hilda towards her.          

‘Here' is all she says, motioning towards the kitchen table and Hilda's pretty face lights up like a Yule tree, her teeth sinking into her indecently luscious bottom lip in an apparently unconscious gesture that makes Zelda's cunt clench.              

‘We might get caught...' They might, of course, but Hilda doesn't actually sound like she gives a damn. In fact, she sounds almost delighted at the prospect, like it gives her a thrill to think that Zelda is far too desperate to get all the way upstairs without an orgasm under her belt. Her own avaricious sexual appetite is just a matter of fact for Zelda, neither something to be ashamed nor proud of, but knowing that it titillates Hilda is enough to send her into raptures.

‘We might not' is Zelda's breathless response, breathless because instead of waiting for an answer, Hilda had buried her head in the crook of Zelda's neck and is currently placing lazy kisses on the flushed skin there like they're teenagers on a picnic with all the time in the world. After days of being wound up tighter than a spring, Zelda’s body is crying out for Hilda with every sinew. She shuffles backwards rather ungracefully, keeping her arm locked firmly around her sister's waist to prevent even the smallest increase of distance between their bodies until her back hits the table.     

‘So impatient, sister!’ Well really, what does Hilda expect? She'd literally and figuratively taken Zelda's breath away by grabbing her and planting a kiss on her that would certainly never have got past the Hays Code, and now she sounds surprised that Zelda is having to put quite a lot of effort into stopping herself grinding into her sister like an adolescent at a discotheque. Zelda is perfectly aware that it's her own fault that Hilda has never understood the extremities of the effect she has on her big sister but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with. Her sexual vocabulary is extensive; Zelda can think of a hundred different ways to tell somebody to fuck her harder, to make them moan, slow down, speed up, to get what she wants. But she struggles to find the words to go beyond want, to get to the  _need_  that she feels looking at Hilda pottering around in that ridiculous little apron that clashes horribly with her equally ridiculous kaftan. And that means that while Hilda has presumably picked up on the fact that Zelda is desperate to come, she has no way of knowing that, actually, she's just desperate for  _Hilda_  to make her come. If Zelda had to choose between stealing a chaste kiss from Hilda and never climaxing again, or getting a rough, satisfying fuck from someone else twice a day, she wouldn't have to even think before closing her legs on a permanent basis. It's just that saying so is simply not within her wheelhouse.         

So, in these moments, she tries to show Hilda instead. Her father had always told her that actions speak louder than words but in this case, that's not an especially helpful maxim; Satan knows, most of what Zelda does to her little sister is as poisonous as what she says. She just has to blindly hope that somehow these actions in particular scream out louder than the rest of them. Hilda has never been stupid. Surely, surely she must know that it's  _this_ that Zelda means; that every time she slices a sharp object into Hilda's neck, it's because she can't bear how much she wants to press her lips there instead. The depths of her own desire for Hilda scare her beyond measure and it's yet another thing that she is completely unable to articulate. All she can do, as she does now, is kiss Hilda like she's drowning and her sister is a blissful breath of oxygen until Hilda makes that low keening noise that shreds Zelda's insides to ribbons. When Zelda, gasping, pulls back, face barely moving a couple of inches, Hilda whines like she's jumped to the other side of the room. 

‘I believe you were just saying something about someone being impatient, Hilda? Funny, you implied that it was me, and yet it seems that you're the one who can't go a second without my mouth on you’ not that she plans to let Hilda wait for any longer than that. She couldn't if she wanted to; the beautiful freckled skin of her sister's neck is too inviting. As she kisses Hilda's throat, Zelda can taste the cheap coconut body lotion her sister slathers herself in every morning, feel the rough ends of bottle blonde hair beneath her tongue. She doesn't care a jot. No delight in this realm or the next can compete with kissing her sister.           

‘Zel-daaa’ There must surely be some doctrine somewhere that forbids Hilda from saying her name like that. Witches are supposed to live for centuries but every time those two syllables trip off Hilda's tongue, Zelda thinks she can physically feel her heart doing its damned best to stop beating. It's utterly addictive and, the same as every other time they've done this, Zelda can't believe she ever lets herself go a day without it. 

When she finally resurfaces, satisfied the pretty pattern of purple and pink she's sucked and nibbled all across Hilda's neck and décolletage (she knows Hilda will vanish them in the morning but it's enough to know they were ever there at all), she moves to hungrily recapture that sinfully inviting mouth but Hilda stops her with a hand to the chest. Her little sister's blue eyes are darker than they were when Zelda bent her head and there's barely a trace of softness there. A shudder makes its way up Zelda's spine and she can't restrain a tiny moan, just from looking into her sister's eyes.      

‘Sit down, Zelda.’ Hilda's voice isn't harsh but it's firm and clear, and Zelda moans in earnest this time. She hurriedly plants both hands on the table to hoist herself up, but once again, the touch of Hilda's hand stops her in her tracks. ‘On a chair.’ 

With shaking hands, Zelda sinks back down onto the wooden chair she'd been lounging in earlier. Her spine is as straight as an iron rod, her fingers trembling as they dig into her thighs, and when Hilda moves to her knees in front of her, Zelda has to take a huge, harsh breath just to stay upright.    

‘I believe  _you_  were saying something about somebody not being able to go a moment without someone's mouth on them' Hilda parrots Zelda's own words back at her but there's no malice in her tone, just a steady determination that has her squeezing her thighs together hard enough to hurt. ‘I think we both know who that is, don't we, Zelda?’    

The words haven’t been invented yet to appropriately describe how much Zelda loves it when Hilda does this. ‘Love’ isn’t even nearly sufficient; mortals say they ‘love’ their insipid house pets, ‘love’ their dreary workaday jobs, ‘love’ stuffing their faces with carbohydrate-heavy peasant food in front of the rubbish blaring from their television screens. What she has with Hilda shouldn’t be tarred with the same brush as anything even approaching the mundane; it makes Zelda feel like she’s on a higher plane of existence in a manner that she’s only ever felt at the most sacred of Satanic rituals and she can do nothing more than gaze down at Hilda with, she’s sure, a look on her face she would never allow anybody else to see. 

‘Yes, yes’ it’s an answer to her sister’s question and a rather desperate plea of encouragement as Hilda, who would still be looking cosily domestic with her flour-stained apron if it weren’t for that heart-stopping look in her eyes, shuffles forward on her knees.

She’s always found Hilda cooking distracting beyond measure. As she’s reminded her sister a million times, half of Hilda’s kitchen routines could be done with a simple spell but Zelda is secretly glad that Hilda never listens. Watching as Hilda makes something out of nothing is intoxicating and on more than one occasion, she’s found herself sitting at the kitchen table flushed with arousal, picturing Hilda’s busy kneading hands gripping her hips instead of working dough. It doesn’t do to dwell on the fact that these occurrences usually end up with Zelda punishing her sister for the alarming depths of her own desire, whether it’s with frosty silence or an equally cold trip beneath the earth outside. She’ll wallow in it later, when her sister is asleep, drown herself in as much of the contents of the liquor cabinet as she can stomach while she berates herself more fiercely than Hilda ever could but she can’t let herself think about it now. Not when Hilda’s hands are climbing up her thighs and she feels like melted butter beneath her sister’s fingertips. 

They don’t get very far though. Hilda’s hands creep just a couple of inches under the hem of Zelda’s skirt before she brings them back down again, smooths the blue fabric gently and makes Zelda whine.

‘Take this off, please, all of it’ Zelda is on her feet in a flash but her hands are trembling to such an extent that it takes her longer than it should to get her dress off over her head, even longer to manage to unfasten the hooks on her brassiere and let it fall to the floor. She wonders if Hilda can see how much she’s shaking as she steps out of her knickers and discards them without a care and as she bends slightly, she doesn’t have the willpower to stop herself from swiftly burying her face in Hilda’s hair. 

‘Don’t say please’ she murmurs against Hilda’s neck, hungrily pressing her lips to her sister’s collarbone before she resumes her straight-backed position on the chair. Hilda lets out a little sigh and Zelda can’t tell if the noise is positive or negative, is overcome with an internal wave of agitation that once again she’s managed to push her too far that is completely drowned out when Hilda’s hand slides up to stroke over Zelda’s indecently wet slit. 

‘You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you, my love?’ with the best will in the world, Zelda can’t restrain a full-body shudder, nods feverishly as she bucks up into Hilda’s hand. ‘You’ve been hellish for a fortnight because you’ve spun yourself into an unnecessary fit of jealousy and refused to ask for what you want. She who doesn’t ask doesn’t get, you know that.’

It’s currently rather difficult for Zelda to breathe, let alone speak, but with a Herculean effort she takes a deep rasping breath and manages.

‘Please, Hilda’ she’s more than willing to let Hilda do absolutely anything she wants to her, desperate for it, but Zelda will be damned if she’s going to be the only one feeling like she’s about to spontaneously burst into flames. She fixes her eyes onto Hilda’s steely blue ones, still trying to thrust against slow-moving fingers, and pitches her voice from shuddering whimper to low purr. ‘Sister. Fuck me. I need you, I need your fingers, Hilda,  _please’._

The tip of a pretty pink tongue darts out to moisten those ridiculously fuckable lips and has Zelda moaning far too loudly even before two fingers slide easily into her cunt and make her claw wildly at the kitchen table. 

‘More, please’ it’s always an effort for Zelda to ask for anything nicely, even more so when Hilda’s thumb finds her clit and all she wants to do is  _scream_. But it’s so deliciously worth it when her sister’s ring finger pushes into her too and Hilda begins fucking her in earnest and it’s so, so good. She’s vaguely aware that she’s mumbling a lot of nonsense, Hilda’s name falling from her lips practically every other word, and Zelda might have felt slightly ashamed if every scrap of her attention wasn’t currently devoted to how truly electric it feels when Hilda rubs her clit like that. At least until Hilda pulls them out again and Zelda actually slams her fist on the table like a spoiled child. She’s nowhere near too proud to beg a little more, not with Hilda, and opens her mouth to do exactly that but all that comes out is an embarrassingly needy groan. The two fingers that had been energetically fucking Zelda to the edge are now enveloped to the hilt by pouty pink lips, a thoughtful expression on Hilda’s face as she sucks Zelda’s come off her fingers. 

‘You know, this tastes different to when I eat you out’ she says conversationally once she’s finished and Zelda raises a shuddering hand to her temple to rub at the thumping pulse there. When they fuck, Hilda usually communicates with no more than breathy sighs and whimpers that set Zelda’s pulse racing. Oh, she’ll give orders, when she knows that Zelda needs it, or tell her how good she is, how beautiful. But while Zelda can talk ceaselessly while she’s fucking or getting fucked, has to be stopped from moaning loud enough to wake the dead, Hilda has never been inclined to verbosity in the bedroom. She’s certainly never normally graphic (Zelda has always thought she’s retained a little too much Victorian prudishness) but if her little sister wants to make adjustments to her modus operandi, Zelda would be very happy to help.

‘Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on that, sister’ Praise Satan, she sounds wrecked. In the grand scheme of things, she’s hardly even been touched; three minutes of being fucked with her sister’s fingers should not have her sounding like she’s spent an entire night with her mouth and legs open at an orgy but it absolutely does. 

‘Hmm, it’s muskier, I think. Not as tart’ from the tone of her voice, Hilda could be talking about variations in a brownie recipe instead of the taste of her sister’s cunt and it makes Zelda whine. She tries her best to grind down on the chair beneath her but it doesn’t do much good. There’s no appropriate substitute for Hilda’s mouth and hands and skin, never has been. 

‘You are an incorrigible tease’ Zelda can’t resist the impulse to wind her hand in Hilda’s soft blonde curls and very gently pull, and seeing Hilda smile is almost as good as the orgasm she’d been chasing. Almost. 

‘And where do you think I learned that from?’ Hilda pinches the flesh of Zelda’s thigh, equally gently, and she hears herself sigh like a contented housecat in front of a roaring fire. ‘I think you might need to ask again, love.’

For the first time possibly in her life, Zelda really wishes that she wasn’t getting off on this. She’s been unrelentingly vile to her sister for a fortnight, Hilda deserves to be able to punish her, irritate her, make her beg without it making her even slicker between the thighs. She should be feeling genuine vexation instead of gorgeously aroused frustration. 

‘Hilda, please. Make me come’ she beseeches, legs spreading even wider of their own accord. Hilda kneeling on their kitchen floor in her apron should not, by all possible logic, be the most erotic thing Zelda has ever seen but logic had flown out of the window today the second Hilda had bent over the oven and given Zelda a perfect view of her deliciously ample arse. Zelda would love another viewing, but she isn’t the one in charge here. With a pleased little hum of assent, three of Hilda’s fingers find Zelda’s dripping cunt again and before she can process it, she’s being fucked with a vigour that she’d almost forgotten Hilda had in her. The movement of her sister’s hand is rough and furious and if she had the capacity to care, Zelda might be alarmed by how close she is to coming. 

‘Harder, sister, I beg you’ Hilda’s thumb presses down on her clit hard enough to elicit a completely inhuman noise from the back of Zelda’s throat and she can vaguely hear the clatter of the chair rocking against the floor as she cants her hips up into her sister’s hand like a wild thing.

‘Hilda... oh, my little love, you’re so- harder, Hilda,  _please’_ Hilda’s wrist twists and Zelda is so full and it  _hurts_ and she’s coming, moaning her sister’s name like it’s the only thing she can remember how to say as Hilda’s perfect fingers fuck her until her cunt finally stops clenching. 

When she comes back to herself, still panting like a worn-out racehorse, Hilda is standing over her and apart from rather flushes cheeks, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and she hasn’t just fucked her big sister in the family’s communal dining area. Zelda is enraptured. In a perfect world, although there is no such thing, she would spend every evening screaming her sister’s name at an even greater volume than she’d been moaning it just now. The thought occurs to her far too late that Ambrose is upstairs and the loudest Dean Martin record in the world couldn’t attempt to drown out Zelda’s groans.

‘How’ she says breathlessly, flinging her arm back against her brow in an admittedly dramatic fashion ‘did you possibly get through that without worrying about an unexpected interruption?’ She expects Hilda to look abashed, or at least a little embarrassed, but her sister just gazes down at her with folded arms.

‘I may have cast a sleeping charm on the second and first floor while you were taking your sweet time getting your kit off.’ 

‘Hilda!’ Zelda is genuinely rather shocked; Hilda has always been extremely reluctant to use magic of any sort on their niece and nephew but she currently looks quite pleased with herself and Zelda has no choice but to stand on shaky legs to scatter kisses against her face and neck. ‘Take me to bed, sister’ she whispers and, as ever, Hilda obliges. 


End file.
